


icarus in retrospect

by green_postit



Series: the icarus verse [1]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Obsessive Behaviour, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was younger, Jim heard stories of a boy who flew too close to the sun on wings made of wax.</p>
            </blockquote>





	icarus in retrospect

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Возвращаясь к истокам](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2705105) by [kaiSSa666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiSSa666/pseuds/kaiSSa666)



  


When he was younger, Jim heard stories of a boy who flew too close to the sun on wings made of wax. He fell, and his father cried.

Jim never understood the story.

Falling never killed anyone.

It was the crash that got you.

\--

Jim likes McCoy.

He's attractive and sharp like broken glass, prickly and explosive. His humanity scorches like dry heat, his compassion only matched by his conviction. He refuses to torture; heals without malice, without reservations. He openly defies Jim's orders, barks out his retaliation but always comes crawling back when Jim applies even the slightest pressure on his staff.

He's also one hell of a fuck. McCoy feels incredible around him, sweet and tight and burning hot. McCoy will buck and snarl right up until he comes against Jim's chest, the bed, the wall, and will curse and growl when he involuntarily tightens around Jim's cock, encouraging him to thrust deeper and harder.

Jim likes fucking McCoy a lot, welcomes the challenge, and thrives on it.

It's been almost a year, plenty of time for Jim to have broken McCoy, but he hasn't. He hasn't gotten bored yet either, something that shocks him more than McCoy's stubborn refusal to cave and bend over for him.

It's been almost a year, but whenever Jim pushes into McCoy, his body still jumps like it's being electrocuted and has McCoy tightening everywhere. Jim doesn't try to restrain or restrict McCoy's movement anymore, likes to watch the organic way his limbs tense and curl, and he lets his own body arch and slide against his. He's stopped reprimanding him for closing his eyes, uses these opportunities to stares at McCoy's pleasure drenched face, relishes in the burn of McCoy's stubble against his neck or his heavy pants in his ear.

Jim notices that McCoy will fight and struggle whenever he bites his neck, how much harder he'll get in his hand if he sucks vicious bruises into the curve of his throat. He never gives in easily, makes Jim fight and kick and pound against his defenses until they lie in ruins at his feet. McCoy makes Jim work for every clipped moan and shudder. The swell of victory almost cripples Jim whenever McCoy's hips rise to meet his or when he'll bonelessly sag against Jim's chest and bounce on his knees to drive Jim's cock further inside him. 

Jim always comes feeling like he's won a war, always makes McCoy shake and scream out his release—never lets him forget that he'll make his pain hurt so, _so_ good. McCoy always heaves like he's breaking, tremors zigzagging up the arc of his spine. He doesn't like being touched immediately after he's come—nerves still sensitive—but Jim'll rub up against him and make him arch like a cat, make him curl into Jim's body all the snugger.

When he's tired, McCoy drops off like a light just a few minutes after closing his eyes. He sleeps heavily, his serious features relaxed. He looks calm, at ease.

Jim never sees that expression anywhere else, keeps it just for himself.

\--

Admiral Galdren beams aboard at precisely 1100.

He's a tall man—probably taller at the peak of his youth—with an imposing snarl that curves to his face like a well-worn scar. He moves with a slight limp that he tries to disguise, but Jim knows it's from a shattered knee that never healed properly.

He greets Jim with the least amount of respect he can get away with—resentful that as Pike's protégé, he managed to snag the Enterprise away from the captain Galdren had spent a small fortune making sure was at the top of the list. Jim knew it was no coincidence Galdren's inspection of the Carthage Space Station overlapped with their destination logs.

He'd sent his spies a coded message telling them to watch for James Kirk's weak points, demanded that they find out the name of his favorite pet. Jim'd already anticipated that Galdren would ask for McCoy, took preventative actions to insure McCoy was tucked up on the high shelf, far out of Galdren's impressive reach.

Galdren was once dagger sharp, so deadly that even his most loyal crewmembers often turned up dead. But that was once and now he's grown soft and telegraphs like he's shouting. He genuinely believes that Jim is clueless, that he'd managed to sneak his spies on board without Jim's knowledge. Galdren's delusion leaves Jim irritated.

To add insult to injury, Galdren speaks in a patronizing tone—the one reserved for bothersome children—and leads Jim through _his_ ship as if he were the guest.

Jim suppresses his annoyance superbly, nattering off little bits of information as Galdren clinically stares at each crewmember. Galdren thinks he's being subtle, but Jim notices how his cold, dark eyes are constantly searching, how every face he lingers on has dark brown hair and wicked lips. The man's sloppy arrogance and poorly disguised want for his Chief Physician sends a ripple of fury through Jim's body.

They retire to Jim's quarters for supper at 2100. He makes Rand taste his meal before tucking in, as if anyone on board would be foolish enough to try and poison Jim's food. It's almost as if the man is purposely goading Jim's irritability, like he's expecting Jim to lose control and lash out at an Admiral.

Jim would never give him the satisfaction.

"I'm retiring for the night, Captain," Galdren says at precisely 2200, and stands with stiff, stately movements. Jim licks his lips to hide his smirk. He's been waiting for this moment all day, the anticipation building up thick and sweet in his mouth like frosting.

"Will you require company for the evening, Admiral?"

Galdren tries for aloof and fails. "I've heard the Chief Physician has a mouth on him a pious man would defile."

Jim twitches despite himself. It's the truth, the first thing Jim noticed, but knowing that one of Galdren's spies made it a point to mention…Jim's going to dismember every one of them for having the audacity to even look at what was his.

"I want him." Galdren's mouth quirks in a poorly contained smirk. His soulless eyes are suddenly blazing with hunger. Jim narrowly avoids glaring and forces a sympathetic smile on his face instead.

"It'd be my honor, but regrettably, my Chief Physician contracted the Tolban virus. It's highly contagious—he's been in quarantine for days."

Galdren sneers, ugly and vicious, furious at being thwarted. "Show me," he growls.

Jim keeps his smug expression to himself. He shows Galdren the room McCoy's been quarantined to. They watch through thick glass as McCoy coughs and groans, miserable and pale and suffering. His eyes are fever cloudy, lips a violent, ruby red that stands out in stark contrast to the blue spots adorning his skin.

McCoy still looks amazingly fuckable, kitten weak and sore, his voice raspy and scraped raw. He sounds the same way he does when Jim has his dick in him, makes the same little bitten off moans after Jim's fucked him to the point he breaks, caves, and accepts.

Jim's so fucking turned on he almost blows the whole charade.

"Unfortunate." Galdren finally sneers, displeasure dripping from the word. He's still staring at McCoy. "I'll leave it to your discretion, Captain."

He sends Hughes to Galdren's quarters and picks a perky blonde Yeoman for himself.

She's tight and wet and rides him like he's a stallion, but Jim still finds himself going soft, even as she does her damndest to fuck his dick off him. She comes twice and he's barely aroused anymore.

Her eyes are wide with devotion; lacks the seething hatred, the open defiance. Her mouth isn't even in the same stratosphere as McCoy's and the rush he gets fucking McCoy's gorgeous ass makes him irritated that Galdren forced him into Sickbay instead of being the one currently sitting on his cock.

The image flares behind his eyes, McCoy's taut body sinking up and down on him, head tipped back, soft mouth slack and making those growling grunts that Jim purposely drives out of him. His dick surges, blindingly hard and the Yeoman makes a high-pitched whine and doubles her efforts.

His orgasm, when it comes, leaves him feeling unsatisfied and with a bone deep ache that feels like a film across his skin.

He kicks her out, face already forgotten.

\--

It takes McCoy another day to recover. M'Benga assures Jim the virus has passed before he calls McCoy to his room.

McCoy shows up, six minutes later, haggard and rumpled, three days worth of beard clinging to his cheeks, every line in his body sagging in exhaustion. His customary irritation at being summoned is missing, replaced with a conflicted gratitude and deeper ache to rest.

When Jim signals McCoy closer to where he's sitting, McCoy sighs—a deep, fatigued sound.

"I should reprimand you for the state of your uniform, doctor." He's only half kidding. "Disgraceful."

"Not gonna get any tidier collecting dust on your floor," McCoy grumbles, crosses his arms and looks away.

Jim smiles.

"True," he ponders, orders: "Off."

McCoy manages a weak glare before he stiffly peels himself out of his crumpled uniform. Jim soaks in the sight of McCoy's body. The blue spots are still there, now fading dry spots. He brushes a finger against a spot near McCoy's right nipple, watches as he shudders—hypersensitive.

Jim purposefully strokes every blue spot he can count—seventy-three—bites the skin between, makes McCoy twitch and squirm, his dick hardening as he fights against his arousal. Jim missed this, God did he miss this.

There's a spot along the crease of McCoy's pelvis that's eye-level with Jim's mouth. He takes it as open invitation to lean in, nips and licks. McCoy mewls—high and intense—before snapping his mouth shut so quickly Jim hears his teeth clack together. The flush that spreads across McCoy's cheeks makes Jim's cock scream, makes his vision double.

Jim thinks of the blonde Yeoman, shakes his head. Nowhere close.

"Bed," Jim commands but hasn't let go of McCoy's hips, half marches, mostly shuffles them forward, only stops when the edge of the mattress connects with the back of McCoy's knees.

He pushes McCoy down, stops to admire the view briefly, before he tugs his shirt over his head, yanks his pants off. He can't remember that last time he was this excited to get laid.

By the time he's naked, McCoy's crawled up the bed, back flat against the headboard, legs drawn close to his chest. He looks like he's going to pounce and Jim has to palm his dick, squeeze it tight to keep that image from setting him off.

"It's been four days, McCoy," Jim reminds firmly, crawls predatory and purposeful. "I'm in no mood to play tonight."

Jim drums his fingers over McCoy's knees, skates his hands down the outside of his legs, recalls just how smooth McCoy's skin is before he grabs his firm hips, lifts him from the bed a fraction of an inch and yanks him forward.

McCoy slides down the headboard. The angle has to be killing his neck, his knees digging uncomfortably against Jim's sternum, but McCoy is flushed pink, head turned away from Jim, eyes downcast. His eyelashes look like smudged bruises on his cheeks.  
Jim's dick throbs.

"Open up," he singsongs, coos, taps on McCoy's hips expectantly. McCoy flushes a delicious shade of red, bites his bottom lip. Jim can feel the way his long legs tense, loosen, clench right back up. He almost has to ask again, but McCoy squeezes his eyes shut and hesitantly spreads his legs around Jim's body.

Jim groans, sinks against McCoy's chest. McCoy's struggle is lame, pathetic, a testament to how exhausted he must be. He usually bucks, pushes, kicks out and writhes like he's being skinned. Jim doesn't mind, gives points for effort.

He latches his mouth to McCoy's neck, sucks and watches as his back bends, hears McCoy's groans against his skin. Jim wonders what kinds of sounds he call pull out of McCoy tonight.

"Hands," he orders, licks his lips. McCoy soundlessly lifts his arms to the headboard, holds on. He's stretched out, slightly damp from perspiration. Gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous.

Jim knows how intensely McCoy's body reacts whenever he takes his time, how McCoy moves whenever Jim mercilessly attacks one of the many sensitive spots he'd memorized on his skin. Jim makes sure to lick across all thirty-six spots on McCoy's chest as he slides down to his groin, grasps McCoy's cock with both hands, runs his thumbs along the underside, absorbs the staggering heat. McCoy's got a beautiful dick.

He reaches for the lube, squeezes a thick, cool glob into his palm. He spreads it across his dick quickly, doesn't look away from McCoy's face as he presses the head of his dick against McCoy's asshole, uses his hand and hips to push in.

" _Fuck_ ," Jim swears, tries to pull out. McCoy's ridiculously tight, burning hot. His body won't let Jim slide out, keeps him locked inside of him as McCoy thrashes and Jim orders his dick not to come. 

It takes a solid minute for McCoy to loosen enough for Jim to comfortably rock into him, for Jim's dick to get intimately reacquainted with McCoy's ass. He loses his pace not soon after, lets himself get swept away in how fucking incredible he felt. The moans he's getting from McCoy are guttural and jagged and perfect, makes Jim's skin prickle.

It doesn't take much—McCoy painstakingly trained to need Jim's cock daily, the separation unraveling things much sooner than Jim'd care to admit. He hadn't realized just how much his dick enjoyed this, how much he craved being so deep in McCoy he felt full. McCoy looks absolutely wrecked, though. Sweating and struggling and clawing at Jim's back, meeting his thrusts reluctantly but relentlessly. He's close, Jim recognizes, hoists his body further off the bed, increases the speed of his thrusts, lets their combined weight rest on McCoy's shoulders. 

McCoy's legs unconsciously hitch up Jim's back, squeeze like a vice as he holds on. Jim changes his angle, expertly slams against McCoy's prostate. McCoy's heels dig into Jim's shoulder blades as he arches completely off the bed. His intense cry and clinging body set Jim's orgasm off automatically, his hips stuttering in their thrusts, erratic and unexpected.

The rush descends quickly, has Jim collapsing against McCoy like his limbs were packed with concrete. McCoy doesn't move to push him away, so Jim rests his forehead against his shoulder, breathes heavily, way too winded.

"Thank you," McCoy half-grumbles, half-pants. Jim knows he's thanking him for Galdren, not the orgasm.

Jim's breathing heavily, finds himself just as exhausted as McCoy sounds. "You'll resume your duties come Alpha shift, tomorrow."

McCoy nods, presses his palms against Jim's chest to push him away. Jim tightens his hold on McCoy with his thighs, pins his wrists against his mattress. McCoy glares murderously, brown eyes blown wide from his orgasm and seething with hostility.

Jim's cock twitches, still buried deep inside him.

"Oh, you're not going anywhere, McCoy. My dick hasn't seen you in days."

"I doubt it was lonely," McCoy hisses, cobra sharp, fight rejuvenated. Jim smiles so wide his cheeks pull. He thumbs at a scab on McCoy's left wrist and watches as the shiver echoes through him.

"I think you should show me just how grateful you are, Doctor," Jim smirks, flexes and rolls in one swift motion. He's still snugly inside McCoy when he lands on his back. McCoy wobbles on his knees and sinks down a fraction more, winces and shifts uncomfortably.

Jim's fully hard by the time McCoy stops squirming.

Jim takes his time, lets McCoy fight him, lets McCoy object and hiss before his complaints peter out and he rocks himself off slowly—achingly slowly—on Jim's dick. It only lasts a few minutes before Jim's control fizzles at the sight above him and he slams his hips upward and fucks McCoy right up until his alarm signals the beginning of Alpha shift.

\--

Jim finds himself watching McCoy more and more.

He doesn't think too much about it at first. McCoy's a remarkably attractive human and it's Jim's favorite pastime to march him through the bowels of the Enterprise and let everyone see the marks he'd bite or scratch into McCoy's body. He loves watching the open jealousy of his crew, loves that everyone wants a taste of the Captain's favorite fuck.

But then he starts to notice.

McCoy is perfectly ambidextrous but he favors his right hand when jotting notes on his PADD and his left for surgery. He never references any medical file despite how complex a procedure appears. His undivided attention is always on the patient in front of him, eyebrows screwed together in concentration. He'll order his staff to deal with minor injuries or burns but will always make time to follow up. He touches every patient with his hands after running a tricorder over them, a habit—Jim notes—he'll have to break him from. 

He's absolutely brilliant and knowing that all that intelligence and fire is his and his alone sends a rush of arousal through Jim that leaves him agonizingly hard. 

He notices how McCoy separates his food on his plate so nothing touches, always eats the vegetables first and moves in a clockwise fashion around the rest of the meal. He's always in a better mood when they serve peach cobbler and he hates the taste and smell of coconuts. He takes his coffee black but puts milk and sugar in his tea. He drinks three fingers of bourbon after every shift in two meticulous swallows and only goes back for a second after Jim's made him bleed.

Jim notices that McCoy's left eye is lighter than the right, a little more green than brown, that he'll smile often, but never in front of Jim. He bites his lips when they're dry, turns them red and plush and it drives Jim crazy. He shaves every morning right to left and washes his left shoulder first when he showers. He sleeps on the right-hand side of his bed and writes his daughter every week without fail.

His daughter was the big one that Jim couldn't ignore. There's no mention of her in his file which means McCoy took precautions to ensure the Empire never found her. But Jim found her, asked a few of his spies that wouldn't be missed about the girl. McCoy's voice always softens whenever he says her name, no matter how furious he is at the time and his pulse jumped in his throat when he caught Jim looking at the framed picture he keeps hidden in his drawer. He's updated the picture once already, keeps the older picture tucked safely in a journal that has absolutely nothing written in it.

It takes him a year, but Jim notices all the little idiosyncrasies and quirks that make McCoy so appealing a toy.

Somewhere along the way, amidst all his discoveries, Jim somehow manages to miss how he'd fallen for him.

\--

Pavel Chekov falls into his lap accidentally.

Vordikoff—a boasting showboat of a captain—lets it slip that the Russian Academy had a prodigy in their midst—seventeen and already revolutionizing the ways they were teaching navigation.

It takes one call to Pike, a few credits exchanging the right hands, and three days later, Jim finds himself with Pavel Chekov's transfer papers pending his approval. Jim scans Chekov's test scores, skims his weapons proficiency records, reads his lengthy essays. He's impressed, but he expects nothing less from the son of Andrei Chekov.

Though when Chekov arrives, Jim isn't expecting the skinny, curly haired little boy that promptly and respectfully salutes him. Andrei is a mountain of a man, massive shoulders and burly limbs encased in stained bones. Chekov looks like his mother, dancer's body and compassionate eyes. He's smiling—honestly fucking _smiling_ —when he shakes Jim's hand.

"Keptin!" he greets in a chipper, bird-like voice. "It is great honor." His curls bounce and his eyes shine with awe. If it weren't for the scratches and scars Jim can see on his skin where his uniform doesn't quite cover, he would have assumed he had the wrong man beamed aboard.

"Ensign Chekov." He acknowledges as he pulls his knife and swipes. Chekov doesn't blink, deflects his swipe easily with a knife of his own, hidden artfully somewhere under his skin-tight uniform. Jim smiles, claps Chekov firmly on the back and sends him stumbling forward a step.

"You're going to enjoy it here," he promises as he leads Chekov to the Bridge.

\--

It only takes two days.

Jim watches as men three times Chekov's mass fall like clipped marionettes under the power of his knives, how Chekov's eyes darken into a maniacal glee as he toys with the bodies of his victims. Jim lets him cut up a few, lets his reputation morph into hushed rumors that spread through the Enterprise like a gas leak.

Jim happens to be there to witness Ensign Simon's body slide off Chekov's knife. Chekov's uniform is torn at the seam, his mouth twisted into a vicious snarl that impresses Jim. The body has three deep wounds, all strategically placed to hit the major arteries. Chekov was clearly annoyed with this one, didn't even take the time to enjoy Simon's death.

"Ensign." The boy snaps to attention, turns on his heel and salutes. He's smiling energetically, all traces of his homicidal rage smothered by his schoolboy awe and exuberance. 

Jim really likes the kid's enthusiasm but can't take another session of McCoy complaining about the body pile up.

It's starting to interfere with his sex life.

"No more killing, Chekov," he states. "Not unless I give you permission."

"Understood, Keptin." Chekov bows respectfully, his admiration still burning.

Jim figures that now is as good a time as any to bring it up.

"And Chekov, if you so much as trim a hair on Doctor McCoy's body, I'll cut your hands and feet from your body."

Chekov looks insulted, eyes darkening angrily before he blinks it aside and bows. "Ja, Keptin."

"Good boy." Jim slings his arm around Chekov's shoulder and leads him to the mess.

\--

Jim knew Chekov would make quick friends with Sulu, knew he'd win over Spock with his intellect and Scotty with his skills.

He didn't expect—but really should have anticipated—McCoy taking to the boy like a mother wolf to her cub. Jim watches as McCoy administers Chekov's boosters with care, tends to his wounds with gentle, concerned hands. McCoy will bark out his unnecessary worry and Chekov will smile with a cherubic innocence and promise to be more cautious.

It makes sense, in a way. Much like McCoy, Chekov has no idea he wears his displeasure and happiness so openly on his face. He's mutilated crewmembers for staring at him for too long, yet will march himself to Sickbay and stand perfectly still, eyes downcast and ashamed, as McCoy snarls out a stern lecture filled with disappointment and concern and confusion.

McCoy always looks at Chekov with sympathy in his eyes, like if he just cared enough, if he tried hard enough, he could somehow save him. Chekov soaks up McCoy's affection like he's starving, like he's drowning, and always looks at McCoy like he can somehow protect him.

Jim wonders if he should sit Chekov down and disclose the dangers of getting too close to something that isn't his property, but Chekov's unrelenting devotion and loyalty to Jim prevents him from doing something he'd end up paying back in blood. As it stands, Chekov looks whenever he thinks Jim's not watching and holds his hands behind his back whenever McCoy's in the same room.

Six months after their body count chat, Jim walks in on Chekov straddling Crewman Farri, his knives dripping, Farri's legs thrashing. Chekov's knife slips from his hand, his fists coated in so much blood Jim can already hearing McCoy's irate voice complaining about Chekov's impulse control issues.

"Ensign."

Chekov turns and glares, cast-off streaking his pretty face. Farri is still kicking out, blubbering and spitting up so much blood Jim's sure Chekov's diced his lungs to ribbons.

But then Jim sees a fleshy, red stump near Farri's ear—his tongue.

Jim quirks his eyebrow, crosses his arms and leans against the wall. "There better be one hell of a good explanation for this, Chekov." Chekov's still glaring, his fury is beautiful, something Jim would love to cultivate.

"He say lies about Doktor McCoy. He say lies so I cut his tongue avay."

Jim's eye twitches. Chekov's words take a moment to register. When they do, Jim's not sure if he's more annoyed at Farri for having the audacity to even utter McCoy's name, or Chekov for defending _his_ pet's soiled honor.

He really might need to have that talk with Chekov after all.

He crouches so he's level with Chekov, notes how his soft eyes flare with murderous intent. He's going to kill Farri no matter what Jim says. He can feel this is the beginning of a downward spiral for Chekov, the debut of the defiance the Russian Academy literally lashed out of him.

He smirks, realizes that as long McCoy belongs to him, he's going to have Chekov by the balls.

When he stands, Jim makes it a point to crush Farri's tongue beneath his boot. The satisfying _squilsh_ makes Chekov smile demonically.

"As you were, Ensign."

\--

Pike extended an invitation to the Annual Founder's Party to Jim, sent along a tailored dress blue for him and a medical white for his plus one.

Jim laughs when he receives the uniforms, laughs at Pike's blatant intentions. Jim eyes the crisply starched medical whites, pictures McCoy's broad form poured into the uniform as Jim parades him through a room stuffed with Admiralty and Empire dignitaries and diplomats. McCoy's scowl would keep him entertained, his indignation at being pulled out of Sickbay to play dress up and attend a fancy party.

McCoy's reaction doesn't fail to disappoint—McCoy spluttering red with fury, fingers balled tightly together, knowing perfectly well he wouldn't even manage a wind up, let along an actual swing.

Jim's so amused he foregoes his usual Sickbay blowjob in favor of getting ready.

The Founder's Party itself is overblown and decadent. Politicians move their slaves and trophy wives around the room like chess pieces. Jim keeps McCoy by his side, hand casually resting on the nape of his neck. McCoy scowls and drinks the whole time, stares defiantly at all those who approach him with intent in their eyes.

Jim somehow always manages to forget just how dull these types of parties actually are. McCoy shifts restlessly next to him; jacket fitted just a fraction too small. Knowing Pike, he'd specifically requested that McCoy's dress whites flirt between being respectful and obscene. The high-collared, sinfully tight, double-breasted jacket clings to McCoy's broad shoulders and snugly emphasizes his narrow waist and long legs. Jim could tell by McCoy's posture that the jacket was constricting his arms and chest, how he'd been sitting ramrod straight all night to avoid splitting the seams.

Jim wants to cut the material from his body and unwrap him like a present.

"Aren't you glad you came?" Jim asks after a particularly monotonous politician leaves their table in favor of a scantily clad slave woman.

"Jus' fuckin' thrilled to be here, Kirk," McCoy snaps, loose lips and shiny from the steady stream of alcohol he's been funneling into his body. Jim usually can't force more than a few clipped sentences out of McCoy, but mix in some brandy and McCoy's accent became more pronounced with every word that he'd inevitably spout.

Jim likes McCoy's gruff voice, likes how he's never at a loss of emotion, how he can imbue so much meaning behind such few words. He especially likes hearing that same curt voice shatter and moan and beg, likes how his name sounds as one of McCoy's screams.

He drops his hand on McCoy's thigh. McCoy's back snaps rigidly straight, flush spreading across his cheeks. He pushes Jim's hand off him, eyes darting around their table quickly, assessing.

Jim replaces his hand easily, slides it higher along McCoy's seam. McCoy curls his back, tries to draw attention away from him. It's a useless gesture; most of the room's been staring, appraising him all night, certainly more now that they're getting a free show.

He squeezes McCoy through the thin material of his pants, his dick springing to life beneath Jim's fingers. McCoy hisses, bows his head, eyes fluttering shut before he snaps them open, glares.

"That's it," Jim encourages. "Fight it."

"You bastard," McCoy growls darkly.

The collar of McCoy's jacket hides the length of the neck that Jim wants to bite, knows how McCoy would buckle and moan, grind up into his palm. He settles for scratching along his hairline, licks his lips when McCoy shakes.

Someone pointedly clears their throat. Jim glares at the interruption.

It's Pike's personal Security Crewman, Dubois. He says Pike wants to see him, gaze flickering to McCoy before he turns on his heels and marches back to Pike's side. Jim eyes his retreating form, sees that Pike is across the room, Admiral Archer and the president of the Terran Empire surrounding his wheelchair.

Pike looks amused, self-satisfied. Jim knows him well enough to know he interrupted him on purpose. Jim smirks back. If Pike weren't already disabled, he would be after tonight.

But he knows better than to keep Pike waiting for long.

"Be a good boy," he mutters against McCoy's ear, nips once just to enjoy the flush that blossoms on McCoy's scowling face, "and don't move."

He leaves McCoy at their table, face a pretty shade of red.

\--

Their meeting lasts twenty minutes.

Archer and Pike chat about upcoming missions and budgets and sectors of the galaxy that the Enterprise is set to explore on the next five-year tour. Archer makes a none-too-veiled comments concerning Jim's staff—his Chief _Physician_ , his _Vulcan_ First Officer—Jim easily deflects but can't stop the remarks from digging under his skin.

He's dismissed with a headache and a stiff neck. His mouth is sour from the taste of Archer's scotch and blood from forcibly holding his tongue in check. He's going to enjoy watching Archer fall, hopes he plays a part.

It's only the thought of peeling McCoy out of his uniform that brightens Jim's foul mood. He thinks he'll tie him down tonight, spread his limbs across his bed and tease until McCoy goes nonverbal and shouts loud enough to rock his room.

But McCoy isn't at the table. He's not at the bar or the bathroom. Jim's irritation grows, lips curling. The party is almost completely over, just a few servants and waiters hanging around and McCoy's too visible in bright white to miss.

Jim doesn't know how or why he noticed the tiny blood drops on the corridor leading to the bathrooms, but the little gaping dots leading toward the shuttle hangar stand out like breadcrumbs.

He's off like a dart, makes it to the hangar in less than a minute.

He sees Security Crewman Dubois leaning over McCoy, the white of McCoy's jacket sleeve soaked through with blood. Dubois' got McCoy's pants pushed down to his knees, has one hand fisting his dick and the other spreading McCoy's ass apart. Dubois is leering, chuckling victoriously to himself.

Jim doesn't remember moving.

He lunges, dagger clenched in both his hands as he uses every ounce of force he has to drive the blade through the man's side. Dubois screams, filthy hands dropping from McCoy. McCoy's body slides off the crate, his painful moans fuelling Jim's anger. 

Rage blinds Jim, makes his shake. He twists his dagger, withdraws it and slams it in Dubois again. He's going to rip this bastard apart with his bare hands, he's going to make him suffer through every breath Jim allows him to have. He's going—

McCoy groans, tries to push himself onto his knees and collapses in a tangle of material and woozy limbs. Jim kicks Dubois viciously, steps over his hemorrhaging body and crouches at McCoy's side.

"Jim," McCoy groans. His eyes are bloodshot and his face is cold and white. The entire expanse of his right hand sleeve is stained red as if he dipped his arm in red paint. The gash on the side of his head is wide and deep, expelling blood in alarming gushes. Jim rips the gold sash from his uniform, balls it tightly and presses it against McCoy's head.

McCoy hisses before passing out. His heartbeat is fluttering, fast and strong against Jim's chest as he picks him up, tucks his head into the crook of his neck so he can keep the sash firmly in place. McCoy's shockingly light in his arms.

When Jim looks up, he sees Pike at the door, solemn and disappointed.

He pulls McCoy tighter against his chest.

"I expected more from you, James." Pike looks sorry for him.

"If I find out that you arranged this…" his voice is foreign to his own ears, vacant but feral. He knows his face is twisted into an ugly, defiant snarl.

Pike stares at him. Jim can't read his face. Pike breaks first, waves dismissively toward Dubois' body as he hovers away.

"Dispose of him, will you?"

With pleasure.

\--

Dubois only lasts a week.

Jim takes Dubois' hands first, follows with his eyes and peels the lips from his face like an orange. He screams in frustration when Dubois' body finally goes limp in the chains. Jim wasn't anywhere close to being finished with him, still has months worth of plans and procedures he wants to cut into him.

He's never felt so personally insulted and violated. Everyone at that party knew McCoy was his, everyone _knew_ but Dubois figured himself exempt, figured he could put his disgusting hands on what Jim's denied Kings and Emperors.

He has Dubois air-locked. There's a restless energy still thrumming through his limbs, still a desire to maim and destroy. He wants to hurt something, wants to break—

"Captain." Chapel's voice is cautious, calming. "He's awake."

He finds himself in Sickbay minutes later. McCoy's still pale, a livid bruise purpling the side of his face. Jim threatened Chapel with his dagger, cut a thin line under her chin and promised much worse if she didn't erase all traces of the gash from McCoy's head.

He was the only one allowed to mark McCoy.

"Leave us," Jim orders. Chapel bows and pulls the divider closed. McCoy's eyes are shut but his breathing is shallow, alert. He cracks open a swollen eye, stares at Jim evenly. Jim's suddenly struck with just how handsome McCoy is. He's a blur of purple and hazel and pink and jet-black and Jim's overwhelmed at the feelings crashing through him, irritated that not a single one of them is arousal.

"I really am going to have to keep you on a leash, aren't I?" Jim means it, but McCoy's already dropping off, medication slushing through his blood.

"Looks it," he mumbles, closes his eyes and sighs. He succumbs to the pull of sleep, face smoothing, breaths deepening. Jim watches him for a few minutes before he stands to leave.

But he can't.

Jim's legitimately shocked to see his hand curled firmly around McCoy's. He doesn't remember even touching him, doesn't know if it was McCoy or himself that made the first move. He's clinging to McCoy's hand tightly, fingers refusing to pry apart no matter how valiantly Jim demands they let go.

He takes back his seat, pulls the chair closer to McCoy's bed.

He stays the whole night.

\--

It's been a long two weeks—uprisings and coups and political terrorism running rampant across not one, but four sectors Jim's in charge of. He's been delegating his men, spreading them thinner than he'd generally like, but the closest ships are still seven light-years away and not getting closer.

Jim sinks into his chair, throws his PADD across his room with a sneer. He's cranky and tired. Archer's been breathing down his neck, newly appointed Admiral of the Fleet and already letting his power cloud his judgment. Jim's not shocked though. Archer hated his father, hated his mother for rejecting his advances. He hated Jim for surpassing all expectations, hated him for earning Pike's loyalty and guidance. Jim knows Archer would rather watch the Enterprise burn than watch Jim succeed.

Still, Jim's not going to lose. He never loses, not since he learned how to win. He's going to survive and persevere and keep amassing his powerbase until the day he'll march right into Archer's chambers and pluck his heart out of his chest.

He closes his eyes, drops his head against the back of his chair. He just needs a few minutes to push aside his cloud of dissatisfaction and regroup.

The door to his quarters opens softly. Jim doesn't need to look to know it's McCoy; his footfall as familiar to Jim's ears as the sound of a knife unsheathing or a phaser clicking to 'kill'.

Jim opens his eyes and sees McCoy standing behind him, looking down. McCoy says nothing, but his eyes are brimming with emotion. There are times when Jim's sure he can read McCoy's mind, when one look at his too expressive features will give away everything he's thinking.

McCoy cards his fingers through Jim's hair, tugs his neck back just enough so his throat is fully exposed. Jim's never let anyone get this close to him before, never let anyone expose the delicate skin of his neck. He's not worried, never once felt a genuine threat from McCoy and his bleeding heart, pinned so beautifully to his blue sleeve.

McCoy stares at him, eyes sharpening as whatever mental debate he's having comes to an end. He leans down slowly and Jim sucks in a breath, stunned at the first touch of McCoy's lips against his. McCoy pulls away, eyes wet and shimmering with gratitude.

Ah. Jim was wondering when he'd find out about Joanna.

"How sweet," he says instead. "Our first kiss."

And it was. Three years down the line, and all it took was a strongly worded communiqué and Joanna's future was safe and secure as long as she kept her wits about her.

McCoy swipes his thumb against Jim's bottom lip. Jim's still gazing up, doesn't miss how McCoy's eyes and face settle in a determined stubbornness that Jim's only ever associated with having McCoy on his knees, screaming for release. McCoy kisses him again, harder and more certain.

Something shakes loose within Jim. He twists like he's breaking a stranglehold, slams his mouth and body directly against McCoy's. His hands grapple for McCoy's head, fingers fisting his thick hair and pulling him in closer. McCoy responds in kind, sucks on Jim's tongue and nips at his lips, cups both his cheeks and keeps their faces sealed together like a wound he's trying to close.

There's a fire flaying Jim's insides, clawing through him. He pushes McCoy to his bed, body aflame, aching worse than the buzz of an Agonizer. McCoy pulls him down, clever fingers slipping his shirt off as Jim amuses himself with McCoy's lips, sucks and licks and bites. He's tearing at McCoy's pants, his shirt. He hears the rip as the material gives, obeys the only instinct that still working— _get closer_.

McCoy responds back with the exact same force, with no give, two immovable objects colliding. Jim can't tear himself away from McCoy's mouth. He tastes slick spit and bourbon and when he sucks on McCoy's tongue, he tastes himself and it whitewashes his mind, makes desire flare dangerously in his gut.

McCoy tugs at his hair, pries him off his mouth just long enough to suck in air, presses close again. He doesn't try to soften the kiss, instead, infuses it with desperate, consuming want. Jim digs his nails into McCoy's head, bends his neck back and licks into his mouth.

McCoy's body slides beautifully against Jim's, fits against him. "Just for tonight," he gasps, nails raking up Jim's spine, really means: "This is the only thing I can give you". Jim suspected as much, doesn't let himself think too long on how short the night really is. McCoy's offering himself and Jim's going to take and take until there's nothing left.

He just needs to get McCoy closer, needs to fuse them together, needs more skin, more of his mouth. McCoy's got both his hands on Jim' s dick, jerks him in tight corkscrews. He's transparent for all he's feeling, must be if someone like McCoy can have this much control. Jim's already too close to coming and McCoy's relentless, sucking on his tongue the same way he does his dick and Jim's gone.

The orgasm crashes through him, makes him shout. McCoy's fingers are squeezing him in a way that still has his dick achingly hard, long surgeon's fingers milking a torrent of want through him. He's smirking, amused as he sides down Jim's body, licks the tip of his cock like he's testing the waters. Jim's body jerks, oversensitive and spinning. He's dizzy and McCoy's tongue feels like sandpaper on raw flesh. It's amazing, his mouth feels incredible and wet and tight as he sucks Jim down, makes Jim's hips snap up from the bed involuntarily. 

He's never felt this out of control. McCoy knows it too, his dark eyes shining with triumph.

Jim's always been a fan of McCoy's mouth, of what it can do to his dick. He still remembers the first time he'd had McCoy on his knees, the genuine satisfaction that buzzed beneath his skin for days afterward. McCoy sucked him like a professional, used his deft fingers and gorgeous lips and clever tongue to wring every drop of pleasure from his body. McCoy knew what he liked, knew when he wanted a quick and dirty blowjob, knew when he wanted to draw out his orgasm until McCoy's jaw locked and his eyes screwed shut in pain.

This time was different, felt infinitely more personal, more raw. McCoy's eyes were closed instead of glaring hotly into his, lips shiny with saliva, encasing his dick like it's the only place it's ever belonged. McCoy's tongue flickers against his shaft, tight pressure felt everywhere. McCoy looks like he's enjoying himself, like Jim's pleasure is tied directly to his. Jim moans at the thought, tenses impossibly tight.

He can feel the tail end of another orgasm rippling in his belly. McCoy pulls off with a slick, obscene sound, strokes his dick with his strong, calloused hands that've been driving Jim insane. His nail scratches just right and Jim bucks helplessly, the painful crash of another too-soon-orgasm ripping through him. McCoy's still squeezing his dick, keeps him rigid.

"That all you got, _Jim_?" It's a challenge.

Jim growls, invigorated, spins them around and pins McCoy beneath him. He shoves two of his fingers into McCoy's mouth, lets him suck once before he slides his shoulders under McCoy's knees, pushes his fingers inside him.

They slip in easily.

McCoy chuckles at Jim's astonished face. McCoy is already slick and stretched, warm and waiting. Completely ready for him. Images of McCoy prepping himself fill Jim's mind, of him intentionally readying himself for Jim's cock in his quarters, maybe Sickbay, three fingers pushed far inside him, clinically and methodically stretching—Jim's shocked he hasn't already come.

"C'mon," McCoy dares, Southern accent dripping thick and sweet like honey. Jim sinks in without any hesitation, swallows his moan when McCoy's legs slide up his back, pin him down. Jim bites for McCoy's mouth again, sucks on his lips voraciously as his hips snap, hard and fast, uncompromising.

McCoy's hands skim his body, alternate between clawing and holding, rubbing and clinging. Jim can't stop kissing him, needs to feel closer, can't feel closer. He licks McCoy's mouth with swiping strokes of his tongue, hammers his cock so far within him he feels the burn in his thighs and back. Every inch of his skin is slick against McCoy's and it's still not close enough, doesn't feel close enough.

It's the most frustrated Jim's ever been in him life. He needs to sink in deeper, needs McCoy completely exposed. Jim's always managed to make McCoy a willing partner—stubborn but willing—but he never understood the difference fervor makes. McCoy is pushing up, fucking himself on Jim's cock, slamming into Jim harder and quicker than the pace Jim's trying to set, growling and whimpering and it's the best sound Jim's ever heard.

It occurs to him just as McCoy comes, right when his eyes slip shut and he groans, that Jim'll miss him, miss the defiance and the struggles. McCoy caved, came to him just as willing as hundreds of people have over the years. McCoy was his puzzle, a piece with all corners that never fit together, McCoy was his great masterpiece. But here, right now, he has McCoy cooing, bending to his whims, obeying his every command.

Jim's finally won, challenge conquered, can finally let McCoy go. Jim pistons into McCoy's ass one last time, comes and feels like he's been ripped apart and scattered, the high and endorphins rendering him senseless.

"Jesus," McCoy gasps, panting heavily. He's flushed and his damp hair is sticking to his forehead. He's smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling. He's never smiled at Jim before. He covers his eyes with his palm but is still smiling. Something tightens in Jim's chest, makes it hard to swallow. "I haven't been fucked like that since my divorce."

Jim doesn't even try to fight the instinct to pull McCoy against his chest. McCoy goes easily, curls his back, squirms in closer.

Jim's won, but he doesn't feel victorious, doesn't feel the ache lessening any. McCoy's tucked into the bend of his arms, warm and properly fucked, and Jim just wants more.

He should have realized it then.

He wasn't giving him up.

\--

Jim's eye twitches, annoyance clogging his throat.

"You wanna run that one by me again?"

"I wish to marry your Physician," she replies calmly, regally. She stands tall, chin held high, determination fuelling her words.

She's only some sort of minor princess of the T'Vharan ruling dynasty, but standing before Jim, she looks like a queen. She's standing up to him, challenging his authority. It's exactly what McCoy does when he won't bend on a subject, when his convictions blind his better judgment and Jim's always found himself impressed, generally allows McCoy to have his way after Jim's had his dick in his mouth.

Under different circumstances, Jim would admire her.

"No," he replies automatically—spoiled like a child—before he can control himself. "Absolutely not."

"You have to understand, Captain," she straightens her back, yellow skin glowing under the dim light, "me asking you is merely a formality."

Jim snarls, is on his feet. "You forget who you're talking to," he snaps, rage coloring his vision.

"No, Captain, you forget who you're talking to. I'm a member of the royal family and you're on _my_ planet." She steps forward, brash and assured. "We are incredibly loyal subjects. When I announce to the council I've chosen a husband, your Empire will support our union."

Jim feels a sliver of panic lodge in his chest and feels the unfamiliar pull of jealousy twist and unfurl deep in his belly. She's not taking Leonard away from him, not when he's his.

Her throat gives way easily to his blade, pastel pink blood sprays across the floor of his tent. His pulse is slamming maddeningly against his skin, makes him heave. Even with her jaundiced body collapsed at his feet, Jim can't make the validity of her threat lessen, can't make himself calm down.

He runs into Leonard as he exits the tent, sees Leonard's haunted eyes as he stares at his blood stained dagger and rushes into the room like there's a goddamn thing he could do to save her.

He's sees the same, hollowed out, haunted look on Leonard more and more since that day; walks around the ship like a ghost, functionally catatonic.

He doesn't argue or shout, doesn't challenge Jim anymore. He's broken and all for a stupid yellow princess who didn't know when to shut the fuck up and accept defeat. Jim's never suffered fools lightly.

He still calls Leonard to his quarters, orders him into the most demeaning and humiliating poses he can think of, waits for Leonard to refuse and complain and they can move past this entire ordeal.

But Leonard doesn't refuse, never does, not once. He vacantly nods at Jim's requests, strips himself gracelessly and crawls into his lap. Even when Jim's managed to distract him from his misery, Leonard's still reserved, will grunt and squeeze his eyes closed like he can't stand to see what he's doing, who he's doing, what he's becoming.

Jim's getting tired of losing on this front. Leonard's slipping away, eyes tinted with hysteria, cracks showing. He's crumbling and Jim's furious that it's over a tiny little waif of a thing that looked like dimming sunshine.

He's currently got Leonard on his knees, holding the back of his head as he slowly feeds him the length of his dick. Leonard sets the pace, a slow, tight pressure that'd normally keep Jim hard for hours. Jim misses the times when he'd order Leonard to suck harder, kept augmenting the pressure until Leonard's jaw would crack and his cheeks would go numb for hours, misses the thrill of conquest from Leonard's snarls.

Leonard keeps up a steady bob, a mellow fog surrounding them. He moves mechanically, physically present but blank for all the effort he's displaying. Jim almost hates how much his dick's grown accustomed to Leonard's mouth, how even now, through a lifeless blowjob, it still stands firm and demanding. Jim sits back, stares at the top of Leonard's head, settles his fingers in his thick, glossy hair. He's going gray around his ears.

Fuck, Jim thinks. This has to stop.

His orgasm swirls languidly at the base of his spine, nondiscriminatory in its methods as long as it's allowed to happen. He grunts, tugs at Leonard's hair gently.

Leonard rips his mouth from his cock a second later, stumbled back on numb knees and vomits, coughs and spits and shakes like he's freezing. His eyes are wild, terrified, scared. Jim sees him try to pull himself together, to ground himself. It's not working. Leonard shakes harder and harder until he just stops.

He's given up. The most stubborn man Jim's ever met in his life has given up.

He pours Leonard a glass of water, watches as he finishes the whole glass in two quick swallows.

"Why does it matter so much?" He needs to know, wants to ask why she's any different from the hundreds of other people Jim's killed, the dozens he's maimed for getting too close to him, the one he strung up in chains and cut to ribbons.

Leonard's looking right at him, but there's no life behind his eyes. He's lost a lot of color, stands chalk white and haggard. Jim knows he did that to him, dislikes himself more than Leonard probably does for it.

"Fine," he huffs. "Next time someone wants to marry you I won't actually kill them."

Leonard nods once, exits. Jim doesn't call on him again, lets Leonard repair the damage, rekindle his fire. He pesters him in Sickbay how he did at the beginning, smirks exultantly when Leonard glares at him for the first time in two weeks, licks his lips in satisfaction when he sees anger flickering behind his hazel eyes.

Things are slowly returning to normal and Jim ignores his own feelings in favor of monitoring Leonard. It's not easy, he realizes quickly, pushing aside the knot that's mangled his stomach, the quickening of his pulse whenever Leonard's eyes find his.

Jim's never been one for self-denial. He killed a princess to keep Leonard by his side, would have killed the whole royal family and every council member if they tried to take Leonard away.

He now knows the fall is more dangerous than the actual crash.

Eighteen days later, his doppelganger from another universe swoops in and takes Leonard away. Leonard McCoy belongs to James Kirk. Apparently, the sentiment is universally accepted. If Jim wasn't in the middle of the most spectacular temper tantrum the galaxy's ever witnessed, he'd find the situation ironic.

Admitting he was in love was the easy part.

Getting Leonard back. That's what nearly kills him.


End file.
